Not good. Time to move.

Only when I turn back around does he let his arm fall.

When I enter the room, my feet stutter to a halt. The machine and Ben’s recliner have been shifted out of the middle, and there’s a smaller yet still sinfully comfy-looking lounge chair beside his seat. It’s angled so that the sitter can see the TV screen but also face Ben.

“That’s your chair.” Ben walks by me to pat the new furniture’s armrest before taking his seat.

I want to ask him why there’s suddenly a second seat in this room when there wasn’t one before, but I’m afraid I’d like the answer too much.

Best not to question it.

As I go to take my place, I notice a small paper bag nestled on the seat.

“This yours?” I hold it up, about to hand it to him, when he shakes his head while wearing a half-smile.

“For you. Open it.”

When I do, I gasp. “Seriously? When’d you get this? You didn’t even know for sure I was coming over!” I pull out a lovely, buttery, flaky almond croissant.

Ben just shrugs like this wonderful pastry isn’t a big deal. “I hoped you would but figured I could find someone to eat it if you didn’t show up.”

I don’t know what to do, so I just settle into my new cushy chair and take a bite of the soft bread.

“Here, put this on. And look away until I tell you it’s clear.”

I slip the rest of the croissant back into its bag and then take the proffered medical mask. The fabric fully covers my mouth and nose with the elastic bands circling my ears. This brings me back to all those times I went with Marcus for his treatments. Need to make sure our faces are covered before inserting the needles. Those gosh darn needles.

Shame fills my stomach when I turn my back on Ben. There’s no doubt in my mind that it’s the best choice for me if I want to avoid triggering a panic attack. I just hope he realizes that I’m the one who’s messed up. Not him.

“We’re good.”

I unwind to sit, facing him, grateful for the gauze he’s placed over his arm yet again. I’m such a wimp.

“Tea’s ready.” Ben’s mom appears in the doorway with a small porcelain pot and two mugs, which she sets on the table that rests between our lounge chairs. “You two need anything else?”

“We’re good, Mom. Thanks.”

With a smile and a wave, she leaves us alone.

When I first met her in that doctor’s office, I saw her as methodical and a bit desperate, which was understandable, given her son’s situation. Now, in her home, I’m getting to see a caring side of Victoria Gerhard, which is disarming. It’s a new experience, receiving a glimpse of a devoted mother. Instead of letting resentment darken my reaction to her kindness, I decide to enjoy her nurturing while I can.